


Hold On

by mckingley



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Illya, Torture, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:56:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mckingley/pseuds/mckingley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The flashbacks had started only a couple days after the end of their mission. Napoleon had initially denied their existence as it wasn’t exactly great PR for the suave Napoleon Solo, who could raise the heartbeat of an entire room if he was wearing the right shirt, if anyone found out how he would often find himself hyperventilating and waking up in a cold sweat with harsh, ugly tears rolling down his face. So he never told anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold On

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic! (yay)  
> I actually wrote this for my English Language controlled assessment so hopefully the moderator will appreciate these spy boyfriends XD  
> I would greatly appreciate some constructive criticism and feedback.  
> Enjoy! :D  
> UPDATE: I got an A! XD

_Darkness. A single light bulb orbits his head. Glimpses of Uncle Rudi’s face. His grimace of pleasure. Breathe. Leather straps grating against his skin. The hidden sting within them. Breathe. Uncle Rudi’s smile. The book. The photos. Pain and Fear. Organs. Eyes. Dissected. Pain and fear. Breathe. War. War is the madman’s joy. The smile. Pain and fear. Pain. Pain overtakes him. Loses control. His body spasms. Breathe. He can’t. The smell of frying flesh fills his nostrils. His flesh._

 

* * *

 

Napoleon wakes with a start, gasping for air like a man resurrected. Breathe.

It had been two weeks since Waverly had recruited Gaby, Illya and Napoleon into U.N.C.L.E. Two weeks since the end of their mission in Rome and Napoleon would have to file the whole experience under ‘well that’s something I thought I’d never do’ (which had become alarmingly large over the years thanks to his profession). One of those things was work with a Russian, certainly not a top class KGB, ‘if looks could kill’, possibly not entirely human Russian anyways. He’ll admit that nearly getting strangled by the bear of a man wasn’t the best start to the partnership, but then again Napoleon had had worse. So here they all were. One big, happy, dysfunctional family; Gaby being the forlorn mother and Illya and Napoleon the siblings with the love-hate relationship.

The flashbacks had started only a couple days after the end of their mission. Napoleon had initially denied their existence as it wasn’t exactly great PR for the suave Napoleon Solo, who could raise the heartbeat of an entire room if he was wearing the right shirt, if anyone found out how he would often find himself hyperventilating and waking up in a cold sweat with harsh, ugly tears rolling down his face. So he never told anyone.

That was until a night when trees were ripped from the earth and moulded into disfigured forms by a ruthless wind. A night when Solo woke up in another one of his cold sweats in his hotel room in London, only to be greeted by an ominous figure at the end of his bed.

He quickly reached for the lamp on his bedside table and as light flooded into the room he saw the eyes of the figure scrunch up and the characteristic scowl that he had come to know grace its face.

“Peril,” Napoleon’s voice sounded raw and fragile; noticing this he tried to return it to its normal smooth tone. “What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?!” Temporarily forgetting about the arrangements Waverly had made for Gaby, Illya and Napoleon’s rooms to be adjoined in case of a premature start to the mission.

“Couldn’t sleep,” came Illya’s reply, the words swaddled in his thick Russian accent. The American had noticed how the other man seemed to hardly sleep at all. Thanks to numerous flashbacks, Napoleon found himself frequenting the drinks cabinet in the common room of the hotel, only to come across Illya; head buried in a book with a stubborn crease between his eyebrows.

“Do you normally watch me while I’m sleeping Peril?” Adding a smirk for effect.

Illya lets out a small scoff. “Net, Cowboy,” copying Solo’s use of nicknames for each other. A slight pause followed which Napoleon used to try and control his breathing. “I came to your room because I heard you yelling for help…” Napoleon froze. “And when I come in I am seeing you are asleep.” Another scowl crosses his face. “Why didn’t you tell us Cowboy?”

Napoleon repositioned himself so his back was leaning against the mahogany headboard of his bed and smoothed down the duvet. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about Peril,” raising his head to meet with Illya’s piercing blue eyes, which was a mistake as if there was ever a pair of eyes that could look into someone’s soul it was Illya’s.

“You should tell Gaby what her actions lead to. What her uncle did to you.” The Russian’s eyes glinted with a kind of desperation, which Solo had never seen before.

“And how do you suppose I bring that up then Peril?” Napoleon retaliated. “Lovely weather today isn’t it Teller? Oh and by the way your Uncle was a psychopath who tortured me mostly out of pleasure for himself!” The American felt his breathing increase and he forced his eyes shut and took long, steady breaths.

 

* * *

 

_Darkness. The smile. A smile of a madman. Breathe. The photos. Organs and eyes. Pain and fear. Piercing blue eyes. Pain overtakes him. His body spasms. A line of blood escapes his nose. A figure at the door. Breathe. Uncle Rudi’s smile. Smoke rises from his body. The figure enters._

_Peril._

 

* * *

 

Then silence.

All he could hear was his own elevated breathing and the wind that demanded attention by causing the window latch to sound like a key desperately trying to open a lock. He felt a weight and he snapped his eyes open to find that Illya had proceeded to sit nearer him and was watching him carefully as a mother would her sick child, his face paler than usual.

“I’m sorry.” Now that was a rare thing to hear the Russian say. “I didn’t mean to cause-“

“Don’t worry about it Peril; this wasn’t your fault.”

“But I should have got to you quicker. I should have properly checked you were okay once I got you out. I should ha-“

“Illya.” Napoleon noticed that the ex-KGB agent’s hand had started to shake and took that as a sign that he needed to calm him down before he broke anything. “This,” gesturing towards his whole mess of a self “Is not your fault.” It was then Illya’s turn to take some breaths and after a few silent seconds he fixed Solo with a look so serious Napoleon would have thought that the KGB were going to come and take Illya to Siberia.

“Napoleon. Gaby deserves to know.” Another pause. “And I think I am speaking truth when I say that we are all friends and we will do what we can to help each other, da?”

A small laugh escapes Napoleon’s lips. “Yes Peril, I think you are right.” This causes the other man to relax slightly.

“So you will tell her tomorrow then?”

“I promise Peril.” Illya quirked an eyebrow in response. “I promise!”

“Good” A weight seemed to have been lifted off the Russians shoulders.

“Honestly Peril, I didn’t know you cared,” Napoleon retorted in his signature smarmy tone. “Just promise you’re not going to kiss me or anything,” he added smirking. Illya let out one of his rare laughs; a superior kind of chuckle which seemed to take years off his face.

“Don’t flatter yourself Cowboy.”

And with that he got up and crossed the plush carpet to the door to his bedroom. He turned his head back to his mission partner and was gifted with one of his dazzling smiles to which Illya just rolled his eyes and muttered something in Russian about Americans and their ridiculous egos and left the room.

“Goodnight Peril!” Solo shouted towards the door and was met with more Russian insults as a response. Napoleon let out a quiet chortle, turned his head to the ceiling and admired the intricate carvings around the hanging light at the centre of the room, following the curves and corners until he could feel himself drifting in and out of consciousness.

The ex-CIA agent didn’t wake up again until the following morning when he enjoyed a traditional English Breakfast with his mission partners and laughed with Gaby at Illya’s face when he was presented with hash browns and crumpets.

 


End file.
